"Hey, you," he said finally.
"Me?"
"There's no one else here."
"What do you want?"
"Let's say, hypothetically of course, that you're the copy and I'm the real Channing."
"Hypothetically," said the copy. "Hypothetically, he says."
"Let's say Qui Dor gets here and wills you out of existence. Then Sarchix has me killed and a new Channing is made. What happens to you?"
"Nothing, thanks to you. I just don't exist any longer."
"What happens to me?"
"At least you get what's coming to you. You're killed."
"Right. If we stay here, we've both had it, and you know it."
"Umm, yes. So?"
"So let's get the hell out of here."
"But if I leave I admit I'm not the copy. Iamthe copy."
"If you stay and Qui Dor proves you are the copy, you'll be destroyed in the process. If he proves you're not, they'll kill you. Go ahead and stay."
"At least why can't you admit it to me now?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Channing said. "I figured you were still making believe you're the copy in case Sarchix had a microphone in this room."
"So that's it."
"I guess that's it. Want to come?"
"Where do we go? This is a crazy situation. We can't work together."
"I know that. I have in mind a temporary truce, just until we can get out of here. After that, the fake Channing better get off Earth and get off fast. If they find him he'll be eliminated. But it seems to me he ought to do the real Channing a favor."
"What do you want me to do?"
"No, friend, it's what I want to do for you."
"I'm the copy!"
"Never mind," said Channing. "It seems to me the fake Channing, whichever one of us is the fake Channing, ought to visit a few people with the real Channing and straighten things out for him. Agreed?"
"Let me think about it," said the copy. It was inevitable that he would come to approximately the same conclusion. They had identical minds. But, Channing thought vaguely, if he wanted to use the copy to help him out of a couple of man-sized jams, he had to assume the copy would be quite willing and eager to use him in the same way. He'd have to watch himself.
"All right," the copy finally said. "We'd better get out of here, Channing."
Sarchix met them at the door. A Channing on either side of him, they grasped the diminutive arms firmly and carried him back into his own office. The ponderous tail lashed out to left and right. Channings fell like tenpins. But before Sarchix could reach his microphone for help, the two Channings were up again and at him, avoiding the wild-swinging tail, circling him warily for position and never once getting in each other's way.
Denebian draperies bound the arms and legs. They let the tail thump the floor resoundingly. The stentorian voice thundered, but the hermetically sealed room was also quite sound-proof.
The two Channings chucked their spacesuits in the ante-room and took the elevator marked FOR HUMANS ONLY—DENEBIANS MUST USE SPACESUITS. On the street, people stopped to stare at the identical twins, who even dressed alike, and at their age.
"Don't be alarmed, Ellen. Turn around."
"Go away from me, Bryan Channing. I don't want to—Bryan! Bryan! Who's Bryan?"
"I'm Bryan, of course," said the copy, advancing with a sincere smile and adding, "How's our little Stephanie?"
"Just a minute!" Channing roared. "I'm me. He's—"
"I see it now," Ellen mumbled. "I see it. I do. One of you, one is a ... a creation. One of Qui Dor's creations." Her face was drawn and white. "How long has this been going on?" She backed away from the second Channing, who was trying to oust the first from her arms. She backed away from both of them.
"So that's your plan," Channing said. "If only one of us could stay you figured it might as well be you."
"Stop projecting."
Full circle, thought Channing in despair. Now they both wanted to prove they were real.
"Nuts to both of you," Ellen said. "The way you've been acting lately, how do I know you're both not fake?"
They looked at each other, the two Channings. They looked at her. They smiled.
"Go ahead and laugh. Go ahead and.... Bryan, Bryan, why did this have to happen to us?"
"That's all right now, dear," the copy said.
"You take your hands off her."
"You mind your own bushiness."
"Listen," Channing said to his wife. "Do you think I'd want you to keep that—that girl inside?"
"You said—"
"He wouldn't want you to keep Stephanie," the copy said. "He'd be jealous of any other copy or any other person, not really knowing how deep your affection is. I want to keep Stephanie, however. You decide, dear."
"I didn't want to keep her all along," Channing shouted. "At least that should prove I'm me. Maybe you don't like it, but that's me, that's the man you married."
"Listen to that, will you?" the copy said scornfully. "Not two weeks old yet, and already he's getting presumptuous."
"There!" cried Channing. "How would he know the copy's age, unless he's it?"
"From when all the complications started," the copy told him blandly.
"Leave me out of this," Ellen pleaded. "I'm all confused. I don't want both of you, I want my husband. I don't even care if he's angry about Stephanie, I just want him."
"I'm not angry—" began the copy.
"That's enough, you." Channing grabbed his arm firmly and steered him from the house. "There are other ways to settle this."
"Like what?"
"Like you'll see. First of all, we'd better get our job back. Then, I'm beginning to get an idea."
"I don't think I'd like it."
"You wouldn't."
"I'm beginning to get an idea too."
"I guess I wouldn't like that, either."
"You'd hate it."
"At least everything's frank and above board."
"For the time being."
"Even that's frank."
"Well, here's my copter."
"I'm going to poke you in the nose. It'smycopter."
But two identical copters were parked side by side on the landing strip. They both had been using copter-cabs all day.
"Suppose we just use one."
"Climb in."
"Where to?"
"You said you had an idea."
"I said we'd better get our job back," Channing told his copy. "The idea can wait."
"So can mine."
They took off, rose into the traffic lane and headed for New York. It was, Channing was the first to admit, one heck of a complicated situation.
The robot pilot settled their argument about which Channing should do the driving.
"All right, all right," State said, mopping his brow. "One of you is Channing and one of you isn't. We can't seem to get at the truth right now, however. I take it you want your job back."
"Yes," said the copy.
"Yes," said Channing.
"Do I give it to both of you? Is your salary doubled?"
"Pretend there is only one," suggested the copy. "Give us one salary. We'll work out our own problem."
"I can't do that, either. One of you is a traitor."
"I've got an idea for you, chief," Channing said. "To your way of thinking, what's a pretty good definition of intelligence?"
"Intelligence? I don't see ... well, it's an ability—yes, an ability to adjust yourself in a rational way to adverse environmental conditions. How's that?"
"That's fine," Channing smiled. "You now have the opportunity to do that, to meet the situation rationally. It will be quite a feather in your cap, chief. What are the adverse conditions? Well, first there's the Targoffian Ambassador and what he's doing. Second, there are the two Bryan Channings. Stop me if I'm wrong: the combination threatens the security of Earth—and threatens your job. That is, you've got to come up with a solution which will satisfy everyone including Health and P. W., and the President is not going to sit on his hands forever."
"I'm listening."
"Doesn't it strike you as odd that Qui Dor should bother to create a second Bryan Channing?"
"Why odd?"
"If Qui Dor were going about his business in an objective way, interested only in carrying the fruits of his own culture to Earth, why would he need a spy? And here's something you don't know: when the Denebian Ambassador was confronted with two of us, he immediately contacted Qui Dor. They know each other, chief. It proves they're working together."
State glowed. "If we can substantiate that, we'll have Sarchix just where we want him. We'd also have an excuse to break off diplomatic relations with Targoff. But can you prove it, Channing? That is, if you're Channing."
"We can try. I think my double will verify this: the Denebian Ambassador claimed Qui Dor could tell us apart by willing the copy out of existence."
State looked at the copy for confirmation.
"Yes, that's true. But I don't think I like what's on your mind."
State nodded. "All right, I'll buy that. But what did you mean when you said Qui Dor could will the copy out of existence?"
"The Targoffians maintain that the real world isn't—real. It seems to work for them, so we can let it go at that. Apparently their creations are mental projections, akin to extra sensory perception, perhaps—although this is creation, not perception. If Qui Dor thinks a copy doesn't exist, it doesn't."
"Wait a minute," protested the copy. "They were going to will the copy out of existence, then destroy the real Channing, then create a third one."
"Not if we conduct the experiment on our own terms," Channing explained. "We'll be able to protect the real Channing. You see, whichever one of us is real has nothing to worry about."
The copy stared mute murder at Channing, then wilted almost visibly when State decided: "That sounds fair enough to me. How soon would you like us to contact Qui Dor, Channing?"
"Not for a while yet, please. I have to see a man about a little job."
"Well, I'll meet you home," said the copy.
"The hell you will. We're going to share a hotel room until all this is over. If you think I want you giving my wife ideas about that little monster...."
"Yourwife? Monster?"
"A hotel," Channing insisted. "Get us a double room at the Waldorf Towers. I'll see you later."
Half an hour's time saw Channing in conference with Nicholson over a couple of steins of ale. "Well, Nick," he said finally, ordering one more round, "how soon can you get started?"
"As soon as I can get a crew together. Tonight, for sure. Let me tell you this, Bryan: after the crazy stuff which has been going on around here, it will be a pleasure to get into space again."
"I'm depending on you, Nick."
"It's a cinch."
"Speed is everything, don't forget." Channing sipped the foamy head and amber liquid. "How long will it take you?"
"Three days out to Targoff in sub-space, a day on Targoff. Three to reach Deneb. A week, Bryan."
"That's a long time. Well, I guess that's it. And Nick?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't find any more planets on the way."
Channing called State and arranged the appointment with Qui Dor exactly seven days hence, suggesting that Sarchix of Deneb also be invited. Mrs. Delacourt, too. Might as well make everyone happy.
"So tomorrow your plan goes into effect," the copy told Channing in their hotel room.
Channing looked up from his magazine in surprise. "How did you know that?"
"I called State to verify the appointment. You realize that it can have only one outcome for me."
Channing shrugged. "I can't help that. Look, I have nothing against you. You can still get off Earth if you want to."
"What would happen to your plan then?"
"To tell you the truth, I don't know. I still think it looks good."
"Thanks for offering me my life, anyway. I'm not going anywhere, though."
"Suit yourself."
"You are."
"How's that, again?"
For answer, the copy shouted, "Hey, George!"
Three big men lumbered into the room, each one large enough to give a Centaurian marsupial a good tumble. Four-foot tall George followed them. George was from Deneb, complete with spacesuit.
"I had a plan, too," the copy reminded Channing. "You forced my hand, as they say."
Channing dropped his magazine and stood up. One of the giants palmed him back into his chair.
"Sit still," said George.
"Now, see here...."
"Sit still. Be quiet."
"If you disappear, they'll call the experiment off. Qui Dor will say he already destroyed you. He'll apologize about copying me in the first place."
Channing's heart was thumping in his temples. "You're going to have me murdered," he said. He wished he could come to some other conclusion.
"And have the body found when you're supposed to be non-existent?Esse es percipi, don't forget. A dead Channing would embarrass us as much as a live one. You'll be taken far away instead."
"And then murdered. You can't chance my coming back."
"You seem hell-bent on your own demise."
"I'm just projecting, as you once said. I should have done it sooner." They had him, Channing knew. The three men had spread out about the room, a swift, athletic strength in their every motion. The Denebian barred the door, balanced forward on heavy-thewed legs, the tail unencumbered by weight and ready to lash out.
Abruptly, Channing leaped for the telio. The largest of the three big men let him reach it, then slammed the edge of his hand down as Channing clawed for the receiver. Channing nursed a numb wrist and stared hopefully at his one remaining avenue of escape. The Denebian twitched his tail, making thumping noises on the floor.
Channing launched himself at the door, but the Denebian pivoted and brought his tail around in a rising arc. Channing met it head-first and collapsed on the floor.
It took some time for Channing to realize that he was in a trunk or box of some kind. The darkness was absolute. He was so stiff he wondered with a growing sense of horror if he had been embalmed. He seemed to be sitting upright, head thrust forward and down, knees drawn up. Only his arms had comparative freedom. Since there was absolute darkness all around him, he wondered how they managed to bring fresh air into his box. Unless it were dark outside, too. Unless they didn't try.
He tried to rock forward experimentally and found that he could not. His feet were wedged tightly, his back was against a wall. He could only lift his arms half overhead, at which point his groping hands encountered an unyielding surface.
The inside of the box, which could barely accommodate Channing, was hot—hot as a copter left too long in the summer sun, its windows shut. He was acutely conscious of the sweat streaming down his face, drenching his clothing, burning his eyes. His head ached and he felt weak. He needed salt. He was trembling and nauseous from lack of it.
He lifted his arms again and struck the surface above his head with his knuckles. He struck it again. The noise sounded like sudden, angry thunder in his ears, but the blows had been feeble and he did not believe the sound carried very far. In the first few moments he rapped with his knuckles continually, until he could hardly hold his hands over his head. After that he paced the blows and sweated and thought.
Was this tomorrow? Had Nick done his job on schedule? A fat lot of good it would do if Channing remained where he was. He was in no position to make book, but the baggage compartment of a spaceship seemed a good bet. Outward bound, said spaceship, with a slowly suffocating Channing to be disposed of at someone's leisure. The second Channing was just brazen enough to pull it off. Since Channing had disappeared utterly, it would be assumed he was the copy and had gone to collect whatever reward copies collect after they no longer are wanted.
His raw knuckles brought no response, but after a time he found he could rock the box from side to side by bracing his elbows against its sides and shifting his weight first in one direction, then the other. Rocking intervals became longer as the box leaned further, first to left then to right. In what seemed a short time, Channing was exhausted. It was too warm, too wet, too stuffy. It was utterly, completely, despairingly useless. If he could have stretched out in quiet repose with a cool breeze wafting him, he might have given up at that point. Instead, he summoned all his remaining energy and channeled it in a final lunging effort.
He felt himself tumbling, over and over. His head and arms took a merciless battering which made him wish, suddenly, the box had been even smaller and more constricting.
He came to rest. A scratching noise bothered him. Damn vermin, go away. But the scratching was outside.
Light blinded him.
"... some kind of animal, instead of declaring it. How cheap can people be when they're willing to spend ... it's a man!"
A face swam down at Channing, who blinked his eyes and squinted and could see.
"Are we in space yet?" he cried, struggling to get up. "Are we in space?"
"I'll say this for you, Channing," State admitted. "You never come up with the same old song and dance."
"Don't you see?" the copy asked. "My double has been eliminated by Qui Dor already. Right, Qui Dor?"
"Right. There was some misunderstanding about the time, and I merely willed the double out of existence."
"Well, I don't know...."
"I do," said Mrs. Delacourt. "This doesn't solve anything as far as I'm concerned. We still have all the same problems."
"You're so right," said Channing, entering the room on the double. "Sorry I'm late, everyone."
State stared Qui Dor down. "I thought you said—"
"I don't understand it," Qui Dor protested.
"They tried to have me killed," Channing said quite matter-of-factly, as if it weren't very important to him. "Because I was real, I couldn't be willed out of existence. This ties the whole thing up, boss. Qui Dor and the Denebian Ambassador are working together in a conspiracy to—"
"Your whole case," Qui Dor interrupted him, "rests on one simple fact. You claim we created a double for you because we wanted a spy, as you put it—an informant would be better—to keep us abreast of all diplomatic developments here. Well, I will admit it. You are the real Channing and this other man is your copy."
The copy moaned softly. Channing felt sorry for him.
"But," Qui Dor went on, "the copy was never created for that purpose, and I can prove it. Mr. Secretary, will you summon the witness I have waiting?"
State nodded, glared at Channing, opened a door. In walked Ellen. "Darling," she murmured, running into Channing's arms. "I'm ready to admit I was wrong. I don't want Stephanie. I don't want your copy. I want you."
"You see, Channing," Qui Dor explained, "after you and Mrs. Channing began to argue about the little girl she had purchased from my representative, she decided to purchase, for a trial period, a copy of you which had all of your traits she liked, and none of the bad ones."
"You didn't," Channing said.
Ellen nodded slowly. "I—I guess I did. I was wrong."
Qui Dor offered State a forgiving smile. "You see how you Earthmen can jump to conclusions?" he asked. "What is so nefarious about the woman ordering a twin of her husband?"
"Plenty," Mrs. Delacourt snapped at him. "You're wrecking our social institutions. Of course, I wouldn't put anything past the Channings—all three of them."
"That's beside the point," the Denebian Ambassador spoke for the first time. "In all fairness to the man from Targoff, we ought to think of first things first. If you want my opinion as an objective observer—"
"That's a laugh," Channing shouted. "You know damn well you're not objective and never were."
"—I would say this man Channing is a trouble maker. I think I told you he assaulted me not long ago."
"Yes," State admitted, "you did. I do wish, Mr. Ambassador, that whatever happens here never goes beyond this office."
"I understand," Sarchix assured him.
Frustration mounted in Channing and exploded. "You're all a bunch of gullible fools!" he cried. "Letting them pull the wool over your eyes like that. The only one with any sense is Mrs. Delacourt."
State crimsoned. "That's enough, Channing. If I were your wife, I would choose the copy."
Ellen shook her head firmly.
"In that case," Qui Dor said, "we might as well eliminate the second Bryan Channing. You are quite sure, Mrs. Channing?"
"Oh, yes."
"I don't believe my wife had anything to do with it," Channing blurted. "Maybe this isn't Ellen at all. Maybe she's a copy." Prove it, he told himself wearily. Go ahead and try to prove it.
Qui Dor ignored him. "Let me tell you in advance," he said, "that the elimination of a copy extends beyond the merely physical. When the second Channing disappears, so will your memory of him. You will remember that any individual, any object—created by me or not—is merely a collocation of qualities perceived by you, the people aware of the object. To destroy the object is to destroy the collocation of qualities within your minds—past, present, and future."
In spite of himself, Channing was interested. "But according to the British Empiricists, God's awareness was the constant conserver...."
"We of Targoff are atheists. We have no God-memory, no constant conserver. But why debate ita priori. Watch."
"Wait, please ..." wailed Channing's copy. It was his own voice and it was unnerving.
The copy wasn't. Not gradually, but all at once. The copy vanished.
"Well," said State, gazing about in a brief moment of confusion, "you haven't been able to prove your point, Channing. I see no evidence of collusion here. What were you trying to tell me, anyway?"
Channing shook his head. "I don't remember." It was as if he had just awakened from a dream and the more he tried to remember it, the vaguer his memory of it became.
"I suppose you know you're through, Channing."
"I—I was fired, wasn't I?"
"You were. I can't remember why, though ... wait a minute." The Secretary had seen Mrs. Delacourt.
"Certainly," she said, dragging herself up from the same un-remembered dream. "I insisted on it."
"You'll get decent references," said State.
"Thank you."
"Mr. Ambassador—both of you—I'm terribly sorry about all this. If I can use my good offices in any manner whatever to help you, feel perfectly free to—"
"One more thing," Channing said. "One thing before I go."
"Yes?"
"In a moment." He frowned. He scratched his head. He sensed that some vital cog had been slipped from his memory and all the little pieces which remained had fallen apart chaotically. "I guess I'll go," he said slowly. "I don't remember." He edged toward the door, Ellen following him.
"I don't care who's fired," Mrs. Delacourt told anyone who would listen. "Something has got to be done about the Targoffians."
Nick was going to Targoff to do something about it, Channing thought dreamily. No, he was going to Deneb, via Targoff. Channing was supposed to call him.
"Oh, yes," he said. "I've got to make a call to Deneb."
"Deneb?" Sarchix thumped his tail.
"The Earth Embassy there. Our explorer, Nicholson." While State protested and Mrs. Delacourt went on complaining, Channing placed the call on their sub-space tie-line. If anyone could get rid of Qui Dor and his copies, it was Nick. But strangely, Channing had thought he had something concrete to go on. Well, Nick might help.
They spoke at length and Channing told the explorer to hold on. He turned to Sarchix. "Mr. Ambassador," he said, "I thought you'd like to know that we've done Deneb a great favor."
"What's that? What did you do?"
"We established diplomatic relations between Targoff and Deneb."
"You're joking."
"No. Honest."
"Why in the world did you do that? I mean, it would seem that we're capable of making our own decisions when it comes to—"
"Uh-uh," Channing shook his head. "You just refused to accept a good thing when you saw it. Good old Targoff and its magic. Now that relations are established, of course, if for any reason you decide to break them, that won't look so good as far as the rest of the galaxy is concerned—unless Earth and Deneb should decide to break relations with Targoff simultaneously."
"Let me at that telio!" Sarchix cried, and was soon busy talking with Nick in English and someone else in Denebian.
"Will someone please tell me what's happening?" State demanded.
"I'm not sure," Channing said. "Somehow, Deneb discovered Targoff and hid the fact, then got us to discover it. It was a way to wreck Earth's position in the galaxy, and to weaken Earth over a long period of time to such an extent that Deneb would be top dog. But now, as the Ambassador is beginning to find out, Deneb will also be confronted with a lower standard of living, a high divorce rate, a low birth rate, food which doesn't prevent malnutrition, medicine which cures symptoms but not disease...."
"I see, I see," Mrs. Delacourt beamed on Channing for the first time since they had met. "Everyone can save face if Earth and Deneb break off relations with Targoff at the same time."
"Right. Only poor Targoff gets left out in the cold."
"I assure you, it is far worse than that," said Qui Dor.
Sarchix had finished on the tie-line and turned to face Channing with a beaten look on his face—if you could call it a face and the slight change of feature-orientation a beaten look. Channing thought you could.
"Then we both break relations with Targoff?" he said.
"No." Sarchix shook his head sadly. Qui Dor paced about the room as if he were cornered. He seemed to know it and Sarchix did, although no one else seemed to notice.
At one and the same instant, Qui Dor and Ellen disappeared. A flitting realization barely made itself felt in Channing's mind. Two of them, but with no chance to take root. This was not Ellen. This was a copy created by Qui Dor to convince them Ellen had wanted ... wanted something, he couldn't remember what, created. Targoff and Qui Dor had not been discovered by Sarchix of Deneb—the Denebians had created them. The original power resided in the Denebians!
White hot and searing, it entered his mind—and vanished. He watched the Denebian Ambassador shaking hands with the Secretary of State before leaving the room. Somehow, the Denebian Ambassador looked glum, as if he had lost something important.
"Am I fired or something?" Channing wanted to know.
"I seem to remember some talk about it," State said vaguely. "But it doesn't make sense. There's no reason to fire you."
"I should be angry at this young man," Mrs. Delacourt mused. "Can't remember why. Well, good day, Mr. Secretary."
She left.
"What did she want?" State asked Channing.
"Beats me."
"I'm tired, Channing. Going to take the afternoon off. You look bushed yourself. Why don't you do the same?"
"Thanks," said Channing.
"I'll keep in touch with the office and call you if you're needed."
"Much obliged," said Channing, and headed for home.
Ellen didn't let him go into the kitchen, but he could smell the chicken cacciatore, anyway. Dinner was interrupted, however, when he received a call from State.
"This will interest your man Nicholson, Channing," the Secretary said, "although it isn't actually in our field. If he's ever in the neighborhood, he might investigate, though."
"What will interest him? Say, where is Nicholson, anyway? Seems to me I sent him someplace. Well, he'll turn up."
"Nothing much, really. It seems a star six hundred light years galactic north of Deneb disappeared. Since it didn't have any planets, I suppose it really doesn't matter."
"I'll try to remember and tell Nick," said Channing. "Did the star have a name or just a catalogue number?"
"They named it after the man who discovered it with the new Luna telescope. Professor Targoff. It's called Targoff's Star."